I'll Be Here
by Punkin09
Summary: Bobby couldn't remember a time when being awoken by the incessant ringing of his cell phone in the middle of the night meant anything but bad news. HurtSam, ProtectiveDean.


**Author's Note: Hi! It's been many years since I've dabbled in fanfic and was active on this site, but let me tell you, this can be not only a joy of fandom, but the start of a career. Fanfic made me pursue screenwriting. I went to college, moved to LA, and am working in the industry now. And all the inspiration came from Supernatural and all the wonderful writers in this community. This story is one of the last stories I wrote before turning to spec scripts, it was posted at one time on this site, but taken down at some point. I found it today in my old computer files and the nostalgia really got to me (especially with the final season coming up, I mean, I've grown up with this show, these characters!), and I wanted to post it so I know some trace of it will always be on the internet. So this one's to for you, Supernatural fandom. Thank you!**

**-Punkin (Jenna)**

Bobby couldn't remember a time when being awoken by the incessant ringing of his cell phone in the middle of the night meant anything but bad news. Being a hunter, a seasoned one at that, phone calls meant somebody was either dying or already dead. Of course, there were always exceptions, such as research questions, follow up calls from robotic officers whom always asked after the mysterious mister X whom had promptly referred him or her to their 'supervisor', and the few scattered wrong numbers that popped up every year. However, late night phone calls never held out much hope, especially one coming from the Winchester boys…

Bobby groaned as his hand reached towards the adjacent coffee table, fingers searching over the chipped and stained wood for where he'd left his phone lying amidst scattered papers and ancient manuscripts. He'd fallen asleep on the couch again, making that the third night this week, and it was only Wednesday! Now, mind you, Bobby wasn't the worrying type, he didn't obsess over the forces in life he had no control of, but the past few years he'd caught himself bending over backward just to keep one working eye on the Winchesters—a task that took ten years off his life every god given day. He'd gotten a glimpse of himself in a broken slab of mirror a few weeks back while frantically rifling through exorcisms, struggling urgently to find the exact one a frenzied Dean needed on the other end of the phone line. In seconds like those, he wasn't sure how he survived the panic—the heart in your throat suffocation derived from the sudden and all consuming terror that people you care about are practically tangoing with the devil, and, even more alarming, are looking to you for help.

After hanging up, still without the complete reassurance that all was well on the other end, Bobby had remained poised, phone in hand and ready to answer the eventual, and generally later than desired, call back. He had stared at his half reflection, taking in the haggard lines on his face, the crooked base ball cap, and the prominent paleness to his skin. _Jesus, Singer, what has gotten into you?_

His reply had come not but three minutes later, when he answered his phone once more to the relieved, albeit exhausted, sound of, "I'm ok, Sam's ok...we're ok, Bobby." It was as if Dean needed to say it as many times as Bobby would have liked to hear it, and then he'd watched as the same wan, tired man smiled dazzlingly back at him.

Finally, it seemed, after too many precious moments of shoving objects to the floor (an act he was sure to regret later) Bobby found the still ringing entity, only sparing an instant to let the familiar dread wash over him in the wake of comprehending the bold printed caller ID through his blurry vision. Clearing his throat, he flipped the handset open, "Hel…"

_"__Bobby!"_ Dean's barking yell cut the grizzled hunter off. Bobby never would be able to discern how exactly someone could portray so many different emotions in just one word, but Dean constantly appeared to manage. He recognized that foreboding tone too, for as long as he'd known those two miscreants the only thing that could induce so much pain in the eldest Winchester was… _"It's Sam! He…we got it wrong and…I mean, he even TOLD me, I didn't listen…there's so much blood…" _something tore through Dean's voice, a half sob or an almost whimper, and Bobby's heart broke a little.

_I knew this was a bad idea; they needed down time, a break! _But Sam had come after him with those giant eyes of his, twiddling his thumbs in a pathetic attempt to get Bobby to relinquish a hunt. _Apparently not pathetic enough, you softie_, Bobby cursed his own weakness. "Dean, calm down!" Bobby's grip on the phone became near crushing, his voice utterly hoarse and escaping through a very sudden dry mouth. "How close are you?"

He could hear Dean draw in a deep breath, presumably trying to get a firm grasp of his bearings and compose his capricious emotions. Bobby had known that boy to be many things, but when it counted, he was only one: Sam's big brother. _"We're about twenty minutes outside the salvage yard; we've been on the road ten. I…" _Dean broke off, the sound of his voice getting further away, but Bobby could still decipher the words. _"Sam! Sam, god damn it, stay awake!" _

Silence fell over the open line, followed by a few indistinguishable chokes and murmurs. Bobby tried to ignore the way his throat itched, blaming lack of proper rest for the burning in his eyes. _"I know, Sammy. Just keep those eyes open a bit longer, ok, buddy? Just a little longer, we're almost there, I promise. You're going to be fine; we're going to patch you up. Just stay awake, Sammy, eyes on me. Sammy? Sam! Hey, eyes on me the whole time, you hear me? Eyes on me…"_

Bobby's fingers grew numb, his skin tingling. "I'll be ready when you get here, just…," he hesitated, perceiving the tell tale hitch in Dean's soft pleading, "…just get here." What else was there to offer?

8888888

Bobby ran fingers still crusted with congealed blood through the wispy, scattered strands of his hair, his eyes shifting to take in the red stained towels thrown askew, the equally colored boot prints forever etched on the irreplaceable texts still scattered across the floor, and finally, the torn and soaked gauze, needles, and whiskey bottles currently occupying the coffee table. _Too close, Singer…way too close…_

His gaze came up then, moist eyes peering sadly at the figure laid out on the same couch he'd been obliviously latent on not but a few hours prior. It would never cease to amaze Bobby the way Sam Winchester persisted to appear all but three years old regardless of his actual age, particularly when he was injured. It was as if the younger man retained some sort of innocence, as unfeasible as that was, or perhaps a type of ceaselessly burning hope that continued to shine through his cracks and distort other's perception. But all Bobby saw, even after several continuous blinks, was some anguished, put upon kid shivering and bleeding on his couch.

It hadn't been pretty. When the boys had arrived, Sam had been less than coherent, legs unable to support him in the least. Dean, bless his heart, had been well past his breaking point, incapable of articulating much more than his brother's name. It was enough to make you want to lock yourself in a closet and cry until someone made you stop.

When Bobby had first gotten a good look at Sam's injury, it was all he could do not to lose what remained of his late dinner. Something had near gutted that boy, his blood had been soaked into his clothes and speckled transversely across his distressed face, and, even more gruesome, dried on Dean's hands and arms. It didn't paint a pretty picture; whatever had happened to those two…it hadn't been good.

Dean couldn't do much more than soothe his brother while Bobby urgently tried to put the kid back together. He'd listened as, virtually, the strongest man he'd ever met was reduced to pleading, his fingers brushing relentlessly at Sam's face and hair, mouth spewing sincere declarations Bobby knew he wouldn't be caught dead saying at any other time.

It wasn't anything Bobby hadn't seen before from the brothers—they were eternally doomed to hold on too tight and let go too late. In moments like those, while stitching Sam up and witnessing the devastation his failure to succeed could potentially leave behind, it was…unfathomable.

John had told him long ago, his voice begrudgingly serious at the time, that his two boys were absolutely inseparable—that their attachment, he thought, was a tad unhealthy. Bobby had laughed; after all, they'd both had a few drinks by then. It wasn't long after that, however, that the hunter realized his friend was more right than wrong. Sam and Dean Winchester were two halves of one very messed up whole. They could barely function as one, much less apart. Bobby was reminded of this sentiment every time the brothers faced their possible demise, and even if he liked to fool himself into thinking he never had such dark thoughts, he could only hope that when one finally did draw the short straw, the other went right along with.

Sam stirred a bit, his brow creasing in pain, the sickly pallor to his skin causing Bobby's stomach to tighten in sympathy. He'd be all right, this Bobby was certain of. The next few days were sure to be hell though, especially if the boy got an infection. It was too early to rule anything out, but perhaps God would take some pity on the poor kid. _He doesn't deserve this_, and then, when Dean was immediately there, soothing his little brother's suffering, _neither of them do._

Bobby shifted, checking Sam's stitches again, just to reassure himself that the horrendous wound was, indeed, closed up. Goose bumps swept up his arms, bile rising unbidden to the back of his throat. He'd never get used to seeing the Winchesters hurt. This occasion in particular had already provided several weeks worth of nightmares. Sam shivered underneath his touch, a soft whine escaping his drained lips. Dean growled in warning, the feral sound akin to a mother bear protecting her precious offspring. Bobby resisted the urge to roll his eyes, immediately placating the man by pulling away from Sam, but not before shooting a look in his direction that said _growl at me again and I'll slap you upside the head._ At least Dean had the decency to look guilty.

As far as appearances went, Dean wasn't looking much better than his younger, and evidently worse off, counterpart. He'd washed the blood from his hands and arms but was still continuing to wipe them on his dirty jeans as if his brother's life force remained stained on his skin. His usually bright, carefree emerald orbs were blood shot, shadowed by bags and haunted by an overwhelming sense of blame. _Typical…no one needs catharsis more in the world than these damned idjits. _Dean's gaze never left his younger sibling's face, his behavior mirroring a rabid guard dog. Worse than a guard dog in fact, Bobby knew because he used to have one, and he was much more frightened of what this man before him could do than what any stupid mutt could do.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Dean's voice sounded painfully rough, the deep quality resonating in the small room and echoing his despondency. Apparently Bobby wasn't being as discreet in his appraisal as he'd thought.

He drew in a shuddering puff of air; his mind vying against questions resting on the tip of his tongue despite the fact that the older hunter knew this was definitely not the appropriate time. "Dean…" he began delicately.

Dean stiffened at once, "Don't!" The snarl came out harsher than was probably intended. Bobby's breath stalled inside his lungs, his heart twisting a bit more. Dean visibly swallowed, his jaw line tightening. He briefly wondered if the man was even aware of the manner in which he was currently gripping his little brother's hand—so tight it had to be painful. "Not now, Bobby…this is my fault and I don't….I just can't hear otherwise right now, ok?" Dean's plea cracked, his volume lingering just above a whisper.

He glanced over at Bobby, a surprising amount of raw emotion swirling and simmering just below the surface. It was astounding, instantaneously rendering Bobby completely defenseless. The older man nodded curtly, _poor kid, never gives himself a break._ "Ok, Dean, whatever you say. But…" Bobby waited until Dean looked over once more, sure to have his full attention, _yeah right, not when his whole world is lying out in front of him like that, _"…you're exhausted, run down. You're not any good to 'em if you collapse on me too. Sam will be fine for a few hours if you want to get some shut eye." He worded things cautiously, making sure to leave out any direct orders.

Dean opened his mouth to argue, his gaze flickering towards his younger sibling. Bobby noticed the way the lines on the man's face immediately softened, the way the conflicted green gaze cleared. Bobby shook his head, amazed at the effect the brothers had on one another. Scientists would want to strap these boys down and put them under a microscope, and even they wouldn't be able to understand.

Although Bobby was well aware not to push too hard (a feat he always seemed to accomplish when it came to Dean) he was beyond ready to suggest that getting some rest would benefit Sam as well, but the older Winchester must have come to this same conclusion because before Bobby could say anything in continuance a ghost of a smile flickered across his face, "I'll get some rest if you go get yourself something to eat. It's been hours, no sense in starving yourself."

_Right back at you, you self sacrificing bastard._ But Bobby bit his tongue; he didn't look a gift horse in the mouth and without doubt took his hallelujahs where he could get them. Not to mention the fact that he _was_ pretty hungry. After he'd stood, resisting the urge to check his patchwork one more time for fear of eliciting another mother bear attack, he'd rested his hand on Dean's shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before turning to amble towards the kitchen. When he risked a peek backwards, it was to find Dean bent over Sam, brushing the stray bangs from the kid's face. It reminded Bobby of countless other incidents in periods of trouble or panic, moments such as these where everybody was abruptly forced to remind themselves that all they really had in life resided within each another and could all too easily be taken away.

When the boys had been teenagers, unbeknownst to their father, they'd always camp out in Bobby's living room, foregoing the extra bedroom intended for their stay. The older man couldn't count the number of times he'd gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom only to discover them sprawled out on the couch, dead to the world. Sometimes, they'd still be awake, and the grizzled man couldn't help but stand hidden in the hallway, listening to their soft conversations.

They'd been so hopeful for the future back then, utterly wrapped around each other's finger. Everything they talked about, it was always _we_ and _us_ and _when_, never _I_ or _me_ or _if_. It was times like those when Bobby thought John didn't deserve such blessings and all he wanted to do pack those kids into his car and take them far away.

Sam had always fallen asleep first—_poor kid was forever plagued with nightmares_…_even today_. Bobby would maintain a silent existence, shrouded by the shadows but totally rapt as Dean would say, "I'll be here when you wake up." It was as if the reassurance was as much for himself as it was for his brother. It broke Bobby's heart and constantly sent him back to his room where he'd stare blankly at the water stained ceiling well past the signs of first morning light. In this life, a hunter's life, nothing was ever a given. One could never take anything for granted, not one damn thing. He felt the gravity of Dean's words—the comfort allotted that would allow sleep to take such a besieged mind if only for a short while.

Bobby stared, riveted, his ears tickling with memories of hushed exchanges as Dean whispered, "I'll be here when you wake up, little brother."

Not being one to ever get caught eaves dropping (it showed you cared far, far too much of course), Bobby shook himself from his reverie and began digging through his fridge in search of something suitable to eat. He prepared a small sandwich, sitting at the kitchen table so he had a good view of the boys in the living room. He told himself it was only because it was where he usually sat anyhow, not because it scared him for Sam and Dean to be out of sight.

Dean had settled himself on the recliner beside the couch, already deep in sleep, his hand resting near Sam's head. Bobby sat in silence for a long time, simply watching the rise and fall of the brothers' chests, realizing with vague amusement that their breathing was flawlessly synchronized. Eventually he stood and made his way to stand over them. It wasn't that he needed to be close or anything, because for the last time, Bobby Singer wasn't some sort of sentimental, tender hearted fool. So what if he covered Dean up with the nearby blanket? So what if he put his hand on Sam's forehead and hovered longer than necessary to check for a fever? He was still the same old Singer, ill mannered and less tactful than ever.

_It's not a lie, _Bobby repeated in his head, over and over again. However, he was set and determined to undermine himself when from his lips came the soft comfort of, "I'll be here too, when you both wake up." _…damn_

_END_


End file.
